28 October 1998
The gal I was tutoring on Tuesday at Huntington Learning Center was acting a bit dippy. She's only 8, so maybe
that's how 8-year-olds act. I don't really know. I'm more attuned to the high school set. So she's crouching under
the desk as I'm checking her work, and I'm getting more and more annoyed with her.
"Come on up," I tell her. "You have to put this book back and go get the next one."
Tittering from below. A tug at my shoelace.
"How about if you come up here and put this book back while I finish writing in your chart? Please?" The please is strained. An afterthought.
She is suddenly silent below the desk. I bend over to look at her and she is sprawled on the floor, feigning sleep.
"WILL YOU PLEASE GO AND GET YOUR NEXT BOOK? I'M GETTING ANNOYED!"
Slowly, she crawls out into the middle of the cramped room. She climbs to her feet, dropping her pencil and returning to the ground to pick it up. She pauses and contemplates the eraser.
"GO!" I cry, pointing to the door. "PLEASE GO!"
"I need a hat," she muses, rising and heading for the door.
"You need something," I tell her.
She puts a hand on the door, then turns back. "I'd put YOUR picture on it."
I think she's actually ready to leave the room, but no, first she must add to her sentiment, speaking in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.
"You're famous!"
Whatever.